


i was getting used to being someone you loved

by fawnlike (amainiris)



Series: all you never gave [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 05:43:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21387058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amainiris/pseuds/fawnlike
Summary: But there’s always something more that Hannibal wants, and Will is in debt, in adoration, in love. He could say no, of course, and Hannibal would stop, draw away, draw back on his fine coat and leave the little house at Wolf Trap. All would be as if he’d never been there at all.And Will can’t imagine anything worse than that.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: all you never gave [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1517462
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	i was getting used to being someone you loved

Spring has always been Will’s season, when the world awakens from its frost-bound sleep and something cruel and final stirs inside those who are broken. _ Like me, _ he thinks as he warms his hands around a chipped mug of hot whiskey, _ like me. _ It’s not the blooms coming up green, it’s not the birds collapsing like a deck of cards through the pearl-gray sky; it’s how the sun is anguish on his skin and the wind mockingly gentle, as if to say: _ You made it, you made it again, and you still have no idea what you are. _

Tonight the world is diamond-strung with rain, putting the stars themselves to shame. Will steps from the safety of his porch onto the long-dead grass, rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows and examines the marks there: teeth, bruises, thumbprints. It’s almost as if the harder he tries to feel, the further away he grows. And what’s the difference, between the worst kind of agony and the worst kind of numbness? What’s more unbearable — the capacity to suffer, or the inability to feel anything at all?

Surely, he thinks dryly, there’s a great amount of pain allotted to each.

Later that evening Hannibal stops by, ducking his head down just briefly to say hello to Will’s overly-friendly pack of mutts, but the smile-that-is-not-quite-a-smile, he wears for Will. Will ignores it, welcomes him into the dimness, pours two generous glasses of whiskey.

He’s grown used to this, by now.

And anyway, he loves him.

And anyway, he tells himself, at least they’ve learned how to be gentle. Gentle enough.

But it’s impossible to explain, even to Hannibal, even to a stranger; how can you love someone with so much purity that you’d kill for them, you’d die for them, but you can’t lie for them? Hannibal drains his whiskey with his usual eloquent slowness, and then reaches over, traces the line of Will’s collarbone. Will shudders, not from desire.

If only they could just stop there.

But there’s always something more that Hannibal wants, and Will is in debt, in adoration, in love. He could say no, of course, and Hannibal would stop, draw away, draw back on his fine coat and leave the little house at Wolf Trap. All would be as if he’d never been there at all. 

And Will can’t imagine anything worse than that.

So he reaches forward, crushes his mouth against Hannibal’s, the erratic twin heartbeats between them fluttering like trapped birds of prey. Hannibal’s are hungry; Will’s are desperate. And surely Hannibal is intelligent enough to know--know that to Will sexual desire is an afterthought, a void, a lack, and so he touches him gently enough. Eases rough wool coat off of his shoulders, their twin breaths pluming into the air, hands going to the buckle of Will’s pants. “I can stop, you know,” Hannibal murmurs, voice hot as hell on Will’s ear. “I can stop.”

_ No, _ Will thinks sadly, _ you can’t. _

It isn’t bad, but it isn’t good, either. It’s as if it happens to someone else entirely: the fucking, the touching, the hand drifting along his cock until it finally reacts, a betrayal of himself. Will is almost outside of himself; the man he sees beneath him, tawny-skinned and curly-haired, almost silent in the afterthought, seems to be someone else altogether.

And then Hannibal is cupping Will’s face in his hand with a strange tenderness, his gaze peculiar in its compassion. “Why do you let me do this, Will?”

“Because,” Will replies, licking his lips and tasting, still, the salt of Hannibal in his mouth, “If I’m going to feel like this for the rest of my life, I might as well enjoy it.”

  
  



End file.
